


fathers and sons

by sylwrites



Series: break free and run [7]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 02:44:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10981710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylwrites/pseuds/sylwrites
Summary: Bughead college AU, short drabble.After a rough day at his new job, FP comes home to find Betty and Jughead making homemade pizza.





	fathers and sons

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short drabble in this series for you all. Inexcusable fluff.

_Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; and sometimes, they forgive them._

  * Oscar Wilde



  
  


The fucking elevator is broken.

 

FP stands in the lobby of his apartment building, annoyed. It’s not as if he lives on the 60th floor, or anything. He has legs and they function perfectly well and he can climb the stairs. It’s mostly that he’s _tired,_ his back hurts, it’s been a long day at the job site, and the last thing he wants to do is trudge up the concrete stairwell. Truth be told, it’s days like this that he would kill for a drink. Just one - not twelve, like before, but _one._ A cold beer, probably, or a single malt whiskey. Enough to take the edge off, to ease the pain in his shoulders, to quell the now-stilled twitching in his hands. Alcohol is more than a vice, FP knows. It’s a friend, old and good, always there for him.

 

And yet, he’s recently shuffled it off, and closed the door to that part of his old life. No more Serpents, no more drugs and alcohol, no more running. And all because of one thing: his family.

 

Sort of, anyway. Gladys had still divorced him. Jellybean still regarded him mostly as a stranger. He wants them back desperately, but knows he doesn’t deserve it. They’d given up on him long ago. They seemed happier now - more free, somehow, without the burden of hope for his return. He’d seen it in their faces when he’d shown up and begged forgiveness. When they’d stepped back, FP had had a thought: maybe the kindest thing he could do at this point was just to stay away. After all, they didn’t want him back.

 

But the boy - his boy - he never stopped trying.

 

FP pushes the door to the stairwell open and begins to climb the stairs. He’s steady, but a little creaky; such is the burden of aging, he supposes. One foot in front of the other, just like at rehab, just like in his outpatient facility here in Boston. You can’t fuck up if you keep going forward in a straight line. It seems reasonable, seems _easy,_ almost - but what nobody tells you is that staying in a straight line is really fucking difficult when you’ve got ten different strings around your fingers and toes, all tugging in different directions. That straight line becomes harder to stick to; sometimes, it’s not enough just to want to.

 

For FP, that was where Jughead had come in. He didn’t blame Gladys for leaving, and he didn’t blame Jellybean for being pulled with her. He’d done more than enough to everyone in his family to justify permanent excommunication.

 

But all the same, Jughead had chosen to stay. And no matter how far his benders took him, when he came back, the kid was always there with a fire under his ass, _pushing._ He was impossible to ignore; the kid had inherited his darkness, that was for sure, but he had a light in his eyes that kept him from following in the grand Jones tradition of giving up. In the end, it was Jughead that saved him. FP has no qualms about admitting that.

 

And now, FP has sobriety, as shitty and hard as it is sometimes. He reaches his floor and pulls the heavy fire door open. It was still weird to come home and not be able to reach for a drink, but he does have something that he thinks is better. Now, he comes home and Jughead is there, and they eat takeout and talk about everything and nothing, and when Jughead goes to bed he always seems lighter than he used to.

 

Part of that FP can attribute to the reduced stress of his son worrying about him - that is definitely true - but the other part, especially recently, is Betty.

 

It’s a strange match, on the surface. FP had thought that at first. They’d been friends for years; he’d known Betty as the kind, sweet girl that was cheering Jughead up. Betty is the archetypal girl-next-door, and for all of his son’s great qualities, he is still a kid from the trailer park. There is no getting around that. FP didn’t think that Betty’s upper-middle class parents would approve of her being friends with - let alone dating - a Jones from the south side - until he learned who her mother was, and then it all made sense. Alice is hard to forget.

 

Sometimes, when Betty is over at the apartment, insistent and bossy, he sees Alice. She lacks her mother’s biting rudeness but has all the ferocity of the girl he’d once known in different times on the south side. Her daughter and his son have only been actually dating a few months now, but FP can see why it works: Betty has enough wit and purpose to keep Jughead on his toes and enough careful kindness to pull him back from that edge that their family is so prone to teetering toward. Plus, she is one hell of a cook, and if there was a way to a Jones man’s heart, it is definitely through the stomach. 

 

FP pushes the apartment door open. There’s no immediate scent of deliciousness, so he automatically assumes Betty isn’t over, but then he hears a squeal and a _“Juggie!”_ and he knows he’s wrong. He shrugs his coat and boots off and then turns into the kitchen, where the kids are obviously attempting to cook something. Betty is at the counter with crushed tomatoes all over her hands, his son directly behind her, a rare grin on his face.

 

“Hi Dad,” Jughead greets, dropping his arm from Betty’s waist automatically. “How was work?”

 

FP fights a wince. He’s not interested in seeing any public displays of affection between his son and his girlfriend, but Jughead seems always to distance himself from Betty with intention every time FP shows up. He supposes it’s his son’s way of protecting himself, but FP sincerely hopes Betty is in on the strategy. FP doesn’t want his son - or Betty either - to get hurt because of a misunderstanding that finds its roots in him and all the various fuck-ups of his life.

 

“Good. Fuckin’ elevator’s out, though. What’re you making?”

 

“Homemade pizza,” Betty responds primly. “But Jughead is being uncooperative with the sauce.”

 

“She won’t put more salt in it,” Jughead whines, “salt makes everything better.”

 

“There’s _already_ a ton of salt in it, I think I can feel your arteries seizing at the thought of more.”

 

FP regards them with a raised eyebrow and shrugs. “Alright. Do I have time to grab a shower?”

 

“Definitely,” Betty responds, “it’ll still be about twenty minutes.”

 

“Alright.” FP nods and strides through the kitchen toward the hallway where the bathroom is. He turns around the corner and immediately hears another soft squeal, followed by silence and then the unmistakeable smack of a kiss ending. FP pushes into the bathroom, smiling quietly to himself. A part of him is still sad that Jughead doesn’t feel as though he can truly share that part of his life with him, but FP knows that he hasn’t yet earned the right to fully shuck the burden of that particular cross. If it’s for Jughead, he’ll bear it as long as he needs to.

 

The pizza is ready in exactly twenty minutes, as Betty had predicted. FP is clean again, and the hot water from the shower has soothed his muscles somewhat. They eat dinner in the living room while watching football, the plates balanced on their knees, and it feels weirdly right. He argues with Betty about Peyton and Eli Manning, then together they laugh at the bored, careless expression on Jughead’s face, and it’s this sort of thing that makes FP think, _this is way better than a drink._

 

FP goes to sleep before Betty leaves, but there’s rustling in the kitchen when he wakes up unceremoniously early, and he figures Jughead is already awake. Betty had left some of the egg pies in the fridge for him a couple of days ago, and his stomach is growling just thinking about it, so he forgoes further sleep, tugs on jeans and a t-shirt and shuffles out of his bedroom into the bathroom.

 

There’s a pink toothbrush on the counter now, sharing a cup with Jughead’s green one. FP stares at it for a few moments, then smiles. His son is an adult - a fully capable one. He would make only good choices, especially if Betty is involved. Of course, he’d been that way for many years anyway before reaching the technical age of majority. Jughead is fifty years old at nineteen, and although FP knows his journey there was shitty, he also can’t imagine his son being any other way. FP finishes up in the bathroom before making his way down the hallway into the kitchen. There’s another muffled banging noise, and when he rounds the corner he expects to see Jughead struggling with the microwave.

 

Instead, FP is greeted with the vaguely scarring sight of his son’s girlfriend, wearing an oversized tank top and a pair of Jughead’s boxers, pressed against the fridge. Doing the actual pressing is Jughead, in sweatpants and no shirt, his hands out of direct sight and Betty’s only visible with her fingernails in his shoulder. They’re attached at the mouth - and god, he hopes no other places - and don’t seem to notice his entrance right away.

 

So FP holds his hands over his face and coughs. “Kids, I’m awake.”

 

 _“Oh my god,”_ Jughead says in a rush. There’s some more clamouring, another banging noise, and then he adds, “ _Jesus,_ Dad, why are you up?”

 

“I had to pee and then I was hungry,” FP explains, turning around to give them some privacy to adjust themselves. “Why aren’t you doing this in your bedroom like other teenagers?”

 

“Christ,” Jughead swears. “We’re decent, Dad, you can turn around.”

 

He does. Betty is at the stove now, very intently mixing batter for pancakes. Her face is flaming red but her eyes are burning holes into the frying pan, and FP feels a little bad for her. Jughead is across the kitchen, arms wrapped around his abdomen, one hand drawn to his mouth in deep thought (or embarrassment, FP isn’t sure which). FP tilts his head at his son and tries to meet his eyes. When he finally does, FP gives him a look - an easy one, one that even Jughead could decode - meaning _what the fuck,_ and then nods slightly at Betty.

 

Jughead grimaces, his own eyes sliding over to Betty now. Her fingers are clutching the pan tightly, knuckles white, and FP isn’t sure what’s going on but Jughead seems to understand. FP decides he’ll give them another minute and wanders into the living room. He hears the muffled sound of voices but tries specifically not to listen, so he isn’t sure what’s being said. He stares out the window at the freshly fallen snow, wondering when this goddamn winter is going to end.

 

Betty calls him back a couple of minutes later, and, smiling, hands him a plate with stacked pancakes. “Here you go, FP!”

 

“Thanks, Betty. Always love your breakfasts.” He accepts it gratefully and carries it to the table.

 

Jughead follows with his own plate, and then Betty moments later. “Sorry about what you walked in on, Dad,” he apologizes, sitting down across from Betty. “It won’t happen again.” He glances between his father and Betty, then with a slight grin, adds, “Betty has committed to learning to control herself around me.”

 

FP raises his eyebrows with surprise at the unexpected joke. His gaze slides to Betty, who is looking at Jughead with a dropped jaw and (possibly not feigned) outrage. Her eyes are sparkling, though, and eventually the corners of her mouth tug upwards in shy amusement.

 

FP shakes his head and returns to eating, cutting a piece of pancake and shoveling it into his mouth with a smile.

  


-

 

**fin**


End file.
